Never mind leaving my body, my breath clears the room. I'm suspended by the feeling behind his words, which as he said is strong.
"This isn't a crush, Katya. It's not just that I'm infatuated with you. I can define those feelings. But this is something more. It's here." He pats his chest.
I suck in a breath.
"How do you know?" I ask, hardly believing what I'm hearing.
"Because I'm afraid too."
I've had three marriage proposals and two guys profess their undying love. All five were drunk. One was in a bar in Bali. One was on a dancefloor in Biarritz. Another was in bed. The last two were from a high school boyfriend and the other from a man twice my age. All of them seemed uncomfortable or delusional or inexperienced.
Spencer isn't drunk as evidenced by the still-full glass of wine in front of him. He appears to be completely at ease and as confident as ever despite his admission about being afraid.
My heart thunders in my chest. Storm clouds gather in my brain. The part of me that might possibly be a hopeless romantic flees from the competitive, independent, professional single woman I forged from the ashes of my father's trespasses.
"What are you most afraid of?" he asks.
Falling in love, but I don't say this. Instead, I blurt, "Farting in front of you."
His laughter comes from his belly. "Are you serious?"
I tell him about how when I had the bout of food poisoning in Bali my classmates at the yoga training took to calling me Angi, nicknaming me the girl who passes wind.
"I will never call you Angi or laugh at you if you fart."
"But you just laughed right then."
"Because I thought you were going to say falling in love or growing old or becoming intimate or too close or losing your freedom or identity."
I raise an eyebrow, ticking off each box.
"My sister had a lot to say on the matter."
"What are you afraid of?" I ask bravely.
"Losing you. I can't get you out of my head. I can't stop thinking about you. I want to be next to you. I don't want anything but you. Before it was about what women could do for me. Now, I want to know you so I can learn what I can do for you." Spencer lets out his breath and then continues, "Every time I look at you, I see something new and more beautiful than the last. This little part of your shoulder for instance." He kisses it. "I can hardly focus on work stuff. When your footsteps come down the hall, I get excited to hear about your class or what you did that day. I daydream about you. I want to roll around in bed with you." He smirks. "I also just want to hold your hand." He squeezes his fingers more tightly around mine. "I want to hear about your hopes and dreams and help make them happen. And I don't even care that I sound like a big fluffy marshmallow."
"Do you care that what you just said terrifies me?"
His face falls. "Yes, I care very much."
My inner brat rebels. "What do you really like about me? Is it just because I'm pretty on your arm?"
"You're sitting on the couch, not on my arm, but we could go to a mirror and check." His smirk comes back. "You do look pretty, everywhere, but if you've noticed I haven't really left my place in how long? Three weeks? I'm kind of going nuts, but we haven't even gone on a proper date yet. Cookies, take out, and room service in a hotel don't count. So I'll have to get back to you about the answer to that question."
I cross my arms in front of my chest.
"I'd never objectify you. But for the record, I think you're beautiful: inside and out. Those soft brown almond shaped eyes." He looks deeply into them. "Your gorgeous, wild hair." He strokes it. "Your legs. Your ass. Your boobs. They're all part of you. But there's the inside too."
"People always say that."
"It's true."
"But what does it mean?"
"It means who you are. How you make other people feel. And you make me happy, contented, excited. You're interesting and engaging and intelligent. You're compassionate and flexible." He waggles his eyebrows. "You blow me away. You're funny and kind…"
A smile grows on my lips.
"You wouldn't hook up with me if I was a dog, would you?" he asks, turning the tables.
I dimly remember what Navy said about men being dogs. "As long as you don't have a tail."
He laughs.
"You're exceptionally good looking and as a rule, you met my friends. I don't hang out or hook up with ugly people."
His face passes through puzzlement for a second.
"You're incredibly hot—"
"The Hottie in 7G?" he asks, interrupting me.
"—And smart and a gentlemen. You're generous, a good flirt, good in bed…"
"Good?"
"Exceptional."
Passion flickers and sparks between us. I edge closer to him on the couch, but instead of leaning in he says, "What about intimacy? Being close to someone and not just in bed?"
Everything the woman at the resort and the old folks at the yoga class said crowd my head.
"What is the real reason you're afraid?" he asks, his eyes not wavering from mine. He gently squeezes my hand.
Metal crashes against metal. Tears spring to my eyes. I'm freefalling. There is no net. No safety from this crash.
"I'm afraid because my father cheated on my mom." I'm shaking and tears quietly flow from the corners of my eyes.
"Katya, I would never do that to you."
I tell Spencer about the accident, how my father died, my mother was in a coma, and I was the little miracle who could walk again. But I've carry my father's guilt, which festered into the fear of becoming intimate because of what it could do to either one of us: make me a careless asshole or land one of us with a broken heart. "I'll never know if he was remorseful or if he truly loved her."
Spencer pulls me into a hug. The drumming under his ribs ignites me. I weep harder with my head against his chest. When my crying slows to a sniffle, still clutching me close he says, "If you'll consider being with me, I'll always talk to you about us. For instance, I'll admit it's my fault when I forget to pick up the dry cleaning. I'm also rubbish at putting down the toilet seat. I do take out the trash, put the cap on the toothpaste, and prepare the coffee maker the night before. As it turns out, I'm also a great baker. But I have flaws too."
I snort a little laugh.
"If we fight, I'll try hard to remember it's about an issue we have and not take cheap, pot shots. My mother was the queen at telling my father that he'd become a fat cat, emphasis on fat when they'd argue about money. No offense, Mew," Spencer says when the cat looks up at us from the other end of the couch. "Ironically, when they divorced, she put on weight and he slimmed down. I will always hug you when you need a hug, hold you tight when you're sad, give you space when you need to breathe. I'll put you before work and technology and distractions. And I will never, ever cheat on you." The last he says with such forcefulness, I sit up straighter.
"How do you know that? How can you make that promise?"
"Because I've been cheated on."
I can't picture him in a relationship, but if he was, I imagine he'd do the heart breaking. He tells me about his girlfriend just after college. How he'd already bought the engagement ring. He was about to ask her father for permission. He had dreams for their future. And how it all came crashing down when he came home early from his first ever business trip to surprise her by popping the question, but she was with someone from her office.
We hug and kiss and comfort each other. We assure each other. We decide to go on a date and take it from there. Then…
Then I fart.
Chapter 15
Dirty Brownies
I'd been holding it in all night—since everyone arrived for the party. Damn the hardboiled egg I had with lunch. The walls are thin and I didn't risk doing it in the bathroom. It wasn't the kind of toot I could let out slowly. Don't even pretend as if you don't know what I mean. Now, I'm humiliated. A burning, hot flush runs from my mascara-streaked cheeks, across my chest, right into
the deepest depths of my ego.
Spencer wears a neutral mask. Switzerland embodied. No judgement. No conflict. An architect's dream of planes and intersecting lines and intrigue. I try to hold it in, I do, but then I laugh, long and loud. Louder than the fart. I laugh so hard I start crying again and then a smile pierces his lips and he starts laughing too. I'd say we're both sexy, but there's nothing wrong with getting a little silly too.
We talk about the episode of Sex and the City when Carrie farted in front of Mr. Big. He tells me about how his sister got home from a meeting early the other day, and unaware of her return, he let one rip.
We laugh until our bellies ache.
He stumps back to his apartment just before dawn, leaving me to think about what it's going to take to make us work: courage, clarity—me really thinking about my wants and desires. I'll have to clean my dishes and not nitpick about the laundry ending up next to the basket instead of inside it. I might even have to fart in front of him from time to time. Like every twenty years, if we're lucky enough to last that long. No pressure or anything. I bury my head in my hands. Seriously, who have I become? Mew weaves between my arms. I scratch behind his ears and then stroke his back until he's purring.
I told Spencer everything. I laid my fears bare. I farted in front of him. It wasn't so bad, but it was also the worst. What am I going to do? Come home, alone, to Mew for the rest of my life? Run from bar to nightclub from meaningless sex to hook up to fuck buddy? From demons of the past that I've allowed to ruin the present? From intimacy?
I call Navy. With the time difference, she should be well into Sunday brunch.
I shift from foot to foot and wring my hands, fretting as the phone rings. When she answers, her voice is cheerful. Traffic and tourists jibber in the background.
"I ordered the same kind of coffee at least three days in a row. I've lost track. Vanilla lattes."
"Is it Spencer?"
"Yes."
"Did he give you the look?"
"The one that melted my panties off or the one that says in a room full of women and other distractions, I only have eyes for you."
"Both. Passion and intimacy in the eyes. Full on, tractor beams."
"Both," I repeat. "Though we haven't been in a room full of beautiful women unless you count Tori, Alicia, Brigitte, Lydia, and Rylee."
"All beautiful. All women."
"Then yes. I had everyone over last night and then he showed up and then I confessed and now I'm a mess."
I can practically see Navy's smile, bright under the Italian sun.
"I'm a blubbering, crying, laughing, I-don't-know-what-ing mess."
She laughs. "If you recall just a few months ago I was feeling much like you. Now I'm happier than ever."
"So it's going well?" I interject.
She answers with a brief digression about romantic Rome, Carrick, and how mad they are for each other. Then she says, "Why are you resisting? Is he secretly married? A criminal? I've seen him naked so it's not that. Wait, is it that? I don't want to sound weird, but is it because I had sex with him?"
"We broke your nightly high score, so no, no worries there," I retort.
"Do you want me to make a pros/cons list for you?" Navy is big into lists.
"That could take a while and…" My body hums electric, a magnetic pull drawing me toward the wall Spencer and I share.
"How about the abbreviated version. Is your excitement to see him overwhelming? Do visualize a future with him in it? Do you feel distracted and can't stop thinking about him? Do you feel giddy? Fuzzy inside? Swoony?"
"Check and check and check. But also afraid and cautious and like I'm fighting an inner battle with the woman I've been for a decade."
"What's the worst that could happen?" Navy asks, exasperated.
"I could turn out like my father."
"You've already broke that mold."
"How so?"
"You're one of the most honest people I know. Sometimes to a fault."
"Well…"
"And if one of you ends up with a broken heart, the great thing is that means you got to experience love. And you don't have to worry; I'd be there for you in a minute."
"What about him?"
"I'm not even going to answer that because you don't have to play worst case scenario."
"But I've been doing that my whole life, jumping from success to success because I'm afraid I'll fall."
"Katya Aphrodite Kalonje. If you fall, you'll get right back up. Well, after eating some of this chocolate I picked up an adorable little market. I promise. And if for some reason you can't find your footing—in this hypothetical scenario—, I'd help you. So would Tori and Alicia, all of us."
"Okay." I stride to the door.
"Okay?" she asks as though convincing me was easier than she expected.
"Yes." I turn the knob.
"You're going to see him now?" she asks knowingly.
"Yes. I'll talk to you soon," I whisper and leave the phone on the little table under the buzzer by the door.
Spencer is waiting in his doorway. "Katya, I want to be your Sunday morning, not just your Saturday night."
Like in a movie or one of Navy's romance novels, I rush into his arms.
We hug and hug and hug and I realize this is a kind of intimacy too: letting him know he's wanted, that I want him and vice versa.
"Wait, I have something for you," I say.
I turn back to my apartment, get a little wax bag from my jacket pocket, scoop up Mew, and close the door behind me.
I pass him the bag. "It's a few days old and mostly just crumbs now, but I saved the other half of my cookie for you. If you don't want to eat it I have this really great recipe for dirty brownies."
His smile lights up the morning. "Tell me about these brownies," he says, drawing me into his apartment.
We spend the rest of the day in each other's arms, talking, just talking about cookies and brownies about spin class and cross training, about books! And talking some more.
*
On Monday morning, I go with Spencer to his doctor's appointment. After an examination and another X-ray, he gets the okay to walk without the boot. I ask questions about recovery exercises and bone alignment. Dr. Swan answers patiently even when I have him go over it again just so Spencer doesn't risk reinjuring his ankle. I need him fit after this bout of restraint.
When we step outside onto the bustling sidewalk, he hesitates, and pulls me into the alcove of a nearby building, out of the flow of foot traffic.
"I know you want to take it slow," he says.
"I cleared my schedule for today so there's no rush…"
"I mean us. What I want to ask is if you'll go out on a date with me." He smiles bashfully as though asking a girl on a date isn't something he does often.
"We practically live together, so that seems like we skipped that step, but I'd be delighted to go on a date with you."
"I'll pick you up at seven."
I change outfits three times. Considering he's seen me naked from every possible angle you wouldn't think it would be so difficult to pick out something to wear. At last, I settle on a black, backless jumpsuit. My earrings are long, almost sweeping my shoulders and my hair is blown out to voluminous perfection. I feel glamourous and sexy, yet demure because this is not a booty call.
I smile at myself in the mirror when Spencer knocks on the door. I grab the pan covered in tinfoil on the counter, my coat, and keys before giving Mew a little pat on the head.
Spencer's eyes swallow me whole. "You look beautiful." He kisses me on the cheek.
"I made these for you."
He takes the pan and inhales.
"Dirty brownies."
"Mmm they smell delicious. And to think, I made you a batch of cookies, hoping to lure you to my place after our date." He leaves the pan in his apartment and then juts out his elbow.
I take it as we walk to the elevator, looking forward to dessert later.
Our reflections
shine in the elevator doors. "I definitely like the way you look beside me. And in front of me when we're talking to each other. And on top when we're—I like you all ways, Katya Kalonje."
I smile and smile and smile. Rain patters as we step outside to the waiting cab. I'm not sure exactly where we're going—well, specifically, tonight we're heading to an French restaurant on Waverly that Marc has been raving about. But where are we going in general? All I know is that Spencer is my destination and we're starting a new adventure right here, right now.
"Spencer, remember when we were driving to Vermont and we were playing that game."
"Yeah."
"And I said I'd never been in love…"
"Uh, huh," his smile lights up the night.
"Well, that's not true anymore."
"Is that why you gave me half a cookie?"
"And a tray of brownies."
"Dirty brownies. I like the sound of those."
"Something I never thought was possible has become, suddenly, very much a reality."
"Are you saying what I think you're saying?" he asks.
"I think I am."
"And that is…?"
"I love you, Spencer."
"I love you, more than cookies and brownies. More than anything or anyone, Katya."
We kiss and kiss and I cannot wait to get back to his apartment to have dessert.
Chapter 15.1
Spencer
I can't stop thinking about Katya on a Caribbean island where the water is as blue as the sky, where the sand is as soft as silk, where perhaps, I'll take Kat and ask her to be mine. But what's the rush because we have each other right now.
And we have dessert…
Navy's Grandmother's Famous Cookies
Prep Time:15 minutes
Cook Time: 8 minutes
Total time: 3+ hours, for dough chilling
Servings: about 24 cookies
Ingredients:
1 stick unsalted butter, softened
1/4 cup cream cheese (softened avoid fat-free, light, or whipped cream cheese)
3/4 cup light brown sugar
How Not to Fall in Love (Love, Hate, and Other Lies We Told #2) Page 9
